


Snips and Curls

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Fluff, Hair fic, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, these two deserve all the affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:08:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: When Crowley had been in heaven, his hair had been one of his most favoured things about his Appearance. The locks rolling down his back to his hips, curling and bouncing with motion and celestial power. Deep, burning red like some of his most beloved parts of the cosmos.





	Snips and Curls

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on my [tumblr](https://obaewankenope.tumblr.com/post/185845060897/work-your-sad-magic-on-my-fluff-headcanons-1-azi) and never shared it here! Correcting that!

> **_“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.”_ **
> 
> **George MacDonald**

* * *

When Crowley had been in heaven, his hair had been one of his most favoured things about his Appearance. The locks rolling down his back to his hips, curling and bouncing with motion and celestial power. Deep, burning red like some of his most beloved parts of the cosmos.

The fall had dulled the shine, taken much of the celestial glow from his hair, but the curls remained. Shorter, less beautiful, but still beautiful. Different yet the same. Or the other way around. Like him[1].

Several hundred years and he rarely cut it. Perhaps three times before the 18th century came and went. Once was out of necessity—too much hellfire being tossed around—but the other two were because he wanted— _needed_ —a change.

Now, in this twenty-first century, full of a lot more vanity and confusion and self-doubt, Crowley’s hair stands out as a tad bit unusual—especially when he doesn’t bother to pull it back into a bun or braid it or any of the other myriad of ways humans have developed over the ages for their hair[2].

One of the styles he often uses is a simple bun, sometimes scraggly as all hell, that pulls enough of his hair back that it doesn’t get in his way but he still feels like it’s got something to it. Some weight.

People probably don’t even realise how heavy hair is— _especially_ people who are used to long hair and suddenly have it short. It’s very much like having a tonne weight taken off you and being replaced with a cloud[3].

Back in Rome, Crowley had cut his hair but he hadn’t _liked_ it. It just fit in with the style of the times. Marked him as Not Briton and thus not a slave—he’d had enough of that after one day and he may or may not have caused a lot of suffering to befall an entire line of Roman leaders for making the mistake.

In the 1970s, he’d cut it to be a little less obvious that he was Different to the humans, especially since he needed to blend in and not Stand Out[4]. He’d let it grow out after and in the mid-90s it was a decent enough length that he quite enjoyed it. Of course, then he was informed he’d be taking the Antichrist to his Designated Starting Point on the gameboard called Armageddon and he’d forgotten all about his hair for a Good Long While.

Until Aziraphale touches it reverently after imbibing far too much wine and declares, “it’s time you had a haircut dear” as though it was the most normal thing to declare when neck-deep in your cups and half-fondling your demonic _not_ - _friend_ friend without any awareness of what said fondling was _doing_ to said not friend demon friend.

This is how Crowley finds himself sat on a rickety stool—knees bent at odd angles so his feet can perch on the cross beam on the bottom of the stool legs, head back, shoulders taut—while an angel runs his fingers through red locks and hums appreciatively.

In short: it’s sheer fucking _agony_.

“You really ought to take better care of your hair, Crowley, it’s far too lovely to—to—be—left to get all tangled like this,” Aziraphale says, tripping over words because of his state of inebriation and nothing else. Obviously.

Crowley wants to reach out and touch the angel when Aziraphale comes to stand in front of him but the demon keeps _his fingers to himself_ and firmly controls his reactions. He may be drunk as all hell himself but he’ll be _blessed_ if he fucks up now just for a few seconds of gratification.

“Been a rough few weeks, angel,” Crowley sighs, unable to stop himself from leaning into the touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his temple when the angel touches the hair there with a gentle grace. “You’d be a little bedraggled yourself in my place.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale disagrees, smiling, “I’d be an absolute mess—a ‘hot mess’ as the kids say, right?”

No. No that is _not_ right but Crowley doesn’t correct the angel, too distracted by the softness in those angelic eyes affixed to the demon. “Something like that, yeah.”

It’s no wonder at all that Crowley agrees to let Aziraphale cut his hair and doesn’t even complain about it—well, not much anyway, he has to complain; it’s what he _does_ —after the angel has given him an absolutely _idiotic_ cut that works for him only because Crowley has one of Those Faces.

“I am sorry,” Aziraphale says for what is probably the twentieth time in as many minutes and Crowley waves him off.

“It’s fine, angel,” he says, turning his head left and right to look at the style from both angles. “This is—yeah—not—not bad.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaims, clapping his hands together, forgetting entirely that he’s holding a pair of scissors that don’t impale his hands only because Crowley doesn’t want them to. “I really was worried you wouldn’t like it!”

Crowley has no way to explain to Aziraphale that even if the angel had made him _bald_ he wouldn’t have said he disliked it without sounding Supremely Pathetic And Besotted and revealing _far_ _too_ _much_ at an inconvenient time. Instead, the demon miracles the scissors into his own hands and gives Aziraphale a smirk. “My turn to return the favour,” he jokes, snipping with the scissors in the air.

Aziraphale instantly backs away with his nervous no-thank-you-very-much-I’d-rather-not smile and Crowley laughs.

“I’m only joking, angel,” he says, banishing the scissors away to _wherever_. “Your hair suits you just fine.”

* * *

* * *

[1] No matter how much Crowley may argue to the counter, he is—and always has been—fundamentally the same person whether he is Archangel or Fallen. It is revealed in the ways he refuses to leave children to suffer, injuries to fester, and death to happen unless it’s Deserved or Entirely Necessary. Yes, he is only one demon-eternal-being and thus cannot prevent all the suffering and pain and death there is, but—and this is the most important part—he tries. _Oh, how he tries._

[2] Hair care—or hairdressing, as it is known—is something humanity developed thousands of years ago, with Greek writers mentioning the habit of hairdressers. In some unabridged versions of Aristophanes works, hairdressers are referred to as both ‘blessings’ and ‘nightmares incarnate’, likely owing to the tendency of a hairdresser to either be the nicest person on the planet or someone who likely needs to be strangled with a hair extension. Those specific works of Aristophanes are _not_ to be found by the common websearcher or archive-hunter; indeed, they can be found _only_ in Aziraphale’s shop on the third shelf from the bottom of the first aisle of shelves on the right of the door. But that’s not a hint to go looking. The Principality is very protective of his books, even the ones documenting _Hairdressers From Hell_ (published 1902 by anonymous). He will hurt you.

[3] This metaphor comes from the author’s own experiences with long ass hair that is just Too Long To Be Practical and thus was cut short in a rebellious act of Fuck You Mum and turned out rather well in the long run.

[4] Ostensibly, Crowley argued that it was to be better at demoning but the truth was so he would be less obvious to any demons in the area and also— _mostly_ actually—because he had to report regularly to hell in the 1970s and 1980s and he wanted to spice it up a little considering the last time they’d seen him he’d had… well… _sideburns_.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley deserves all the affection Aziraphale gives me ~~and more~~
> 
> As always, comments and kudos sustain me :)


End file.
